


Anxiety Disorders

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mary meets Molly, Molly is brilliant, Separation Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6216331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly suffers from anxiety whenever Sherlock is around.  Mary suffers from anxiety when John is not.  Together, they make a formidable team!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Formidable Team

The door to the lab flew open, and she turned quickly towards it, her heart stammering in its usual arrhythmic panic as it always did in anticipation of seeing him. She always longed to see him when he was not present; but things were actually so arduous when he was here. Why did every minute she spent with him have to be so difficult? 

But her visitor wasn’t him. Molly felt such a mixture of disappointment and relief that she was unable to greet the intruder at once. Sherlock had texted that he was coming to look at the body that had just been delivered to her morgue. He hadn’t mentioned that he was meeting John’s current girlfriend here, too.

“Hullo,” said Mary Morstan brightly, as if she were not the most disappointing sight Molly had seen all day. The most human-bit of Molly wanted very much to dislike John’s new girlfriend. Mary was intelligent; she was pretty; she was self-assured and capable. And she was friendly and kind and not at all vain. So many good qualities in one small person. It just wasn’t fair. She made Molly feel plain and clumsy and ridiculous.

“Hi,” Molly returned automatically, tongue-tied. “I, ah, I wasn’t expecting. . . . I mean, Sherlock didn’t say . . . .”

“He probably doesn’t know,” Mary assured her cheerfully. “John texted me at work and asked me to meet them here. We had a date, but of course The Work takes precedence, doesn’t it? And anyway, I jumped at the chance. I’ve been longing to see the place they call a second home.” 

“That’s a first. I mean, John’s never brought any of his girlfriends to St. Bart’s before,” Molly began, and her hand flew to her mouth in horror, afraid she’d offended this latest in the long line of John Watson’s lady friends.

But Mary just laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware that John wasn’t living in a monastery before we met. In fact, during the year before we starting seeing each other, I was a first-hand witness to the Lady-Friend Parade.”

“That doesn’t . . . doesn’t that bother you?” Molly asked curiously and instantly regretted being so inquisitive. What was the matter with her? Her mouth seemed determined to get her into trouble with this woman.

Mary chuckled, unfazed. “Little did he know it, but I believe he was actually searching for me the whole time!” she confided cheerfully. “Now that he’s found me, we’ll live happily ever after.” 

Molly believed it. She’d seen the way John Watson looked at Mary; as if she were the most precious, most amazing thing in the universe. If someone ever looked at Molly that way . . . . Well, it wouldn’t really matter, would it, unless that ‘someone’ were him?

“How long have you two been dating?” she wondered aloud. Hearing the answer was four months, she gaped at Mary. “Oh! That’s a record for John, isn’t it? I never thought he’d be able to keep a girlfriend for . . . .” Molly blushed at her rudeness. Do shut up, idiot, she told herself, turning away in her embarrassment; but Mary was laughing, entirely un-offended.

“He’s often said the same thing,” she admitted cheerfully. “It’s been a lot of work, convincing him that I intend to stick around. Being repeatedly dumped wreaks havoc on one’s self-esteem. He kept me away from Sherlock for three months, he was so terrified I’d be frightened off.”

Molly was happy for John; she really was. Although, to tell the truth, she’d never really given him much thought. He was a nice enough chap, but she’d rarely seen John without Sherlock, and when Sherlock was in the room, everyone else just sort of faded into the periphery. It was as if Sherlock were the only bit of colour in an otherwise black-and-white film; he just drew all attention to himself, and everything else became relegated to being background setting for his drama. At least, it always seemed that way to Molly.

She was happy for Mary, too, in spite of herself. It wasn’t Mary’s fault she was practically perfect in every way, was it? And Molly wasn’t a catty person. However much she might want to, she couldn’t really bring herself to dislike someone for being too pretty, or too smart, or too self-confident, or even too well-loved. But what did really bother her about Mary was the way Sherlock treated her. As if she were—well, not an equal, but at least not a complete moron. How did she do that? How did Mary make Sherlock be nice to her?

“I wouldn’t mind a tour while we wait for the boys,” Mary was saying, wandering about the lab while Molly silently mused. She roused herself to be sociable and began pointing out things of interest, while Mary admired how well-equipped the lab was. But time stretched on and the boys still did not appear. Mary had begun looking repeatedly at her phone after half-an-hour had passed. Now she held it in her hand as if afraid of missing a call.

“I wonder what’s keeping them,” Mary mused. 

Molly only shrugged. “They’re always late. It doesn’t matter. They know I’ll wait here for them, however long they take.”

A mischievous glint came to Mary’s eye. “Let’s get a jump on them, shall we? Let’s go look at this body ourselves and do a bit of detecting while we wait.”

Molly hesitated. She was the pathologist, after all. It was her job to examine the body. But she dreaded making Sherlock upset with her. “What . . . What do you think he’ll say?” she whispered.

“Who cares!” cried fearless Mary, heedless of any danger. “What can he do to us? Whine and complain? Or yell insults? It’s all only noise. Come on, show me where the morgue is. I’m dying for a bit of excitement.”

Molly smiled, intrigued. She had met very few people who would call examining a corpse ‘a bit of excitement’. Mary, it seemed, was a woman after Molly’s own heart. They hurried downstairs and entered the morgue, chattering now like old friends instead of newly-made acquaintances, swapping stories about cases they’d worked on. It was a nice feeling. 

In the morgue, Molly pulled the correct body and the two women set to work. Mary fell easily into the role of assistant, often commenting on how well Molly did her job. She felt warmed by the encouragement. It was admittedly not common for a pathologist to receive compliments on her work. Occasionally, Mary would point out something of interest, and Molly was impressed by her new friend’s depth of knowledge and perception.

Molly also noted, however, that Mary was checking her phone more and more often as the time went by. Now the boys were over two hours late, and Mary, although not visibly agitated, was exhibiting signs of stress. Molly wondered if John’s perfect new girlfriend had a flaw after all. She seemed to have some sort of anxiety disorder. Molly knew that this information should not give her such a feeling of satisfaction. But Molly was only human.

“May I ask you a question,” Molly said at last, taking a break from her work. Mary nodded. “Sherlock likes you. How did you make him like you?”

Mary laughed. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with me,” she confessed. “It’s all about John. Sherlock tested me thoroughly, mind you, to make sure I understood John properly before I was to be allowed to continue dating him. But after being vetted and approved, I think he sort of promoted me from the herd designation of ‘potential source of annoyance’ to ‘extension of John’. He treats me the way he treats John because he sees me as a sort of ‘John 2.0’.”

Well, that was unhelpful, thought Molly. But it was an interesting insight. “‘Herd designation’. . . . Do you think Sherlock sees anyone but John as an individual?” she asked.

“Not most people, no, I don’t believe so,” Mary replied honestly. “I’m still new at this, of course; I’m still figuring him out.” She put a comforting hand on Molly’s arm. “And I know it’s frustrating for you, Molly. I think he sees you as a part of St. Bart’s.” Molly smiled sadly. Mary was alarmingly perceptive.

“Like a piece of lab equipment, I suppose,” Molly acknowledged without bitterness. It was what she’d suspected all along, anyway. “How did John . . . what did he do to merit being seen as an individual, do you know?”

“Saving his life, maybe. Being honest and standing up to him and calling him an idiot, more likely. John is the only person I know who isn’t at all intimidated by him. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know!” Mary chuckled. “I can tell you that being recognized by Sherlock as an individual is not always a positive thing. I understand that DI Lestrade’s chief forensics officer has managed to make himself so obnoxious that Sherlock cannot bear to be in the same room with him. Most people, he can just ignore as a part of the background.”

Molly sighed. She was part of the background of St. Bart’s, she knew. But better that than to never see him at all. And where was he, anyway? Three hours late! They had finished with the corpse and now that they had nothing to do, Mary’s anxiety level was rising. She remained outwardly cool and calm; but Molly was perceptive as well. She saw the nervous twitching of the fingers, the biting of the lower lip, the repeated, surreptitious phone checks. Hadn’t John mentioned that he had met Mary through a case involving the mysterious disappearance of her father? All unseemly jealousy fell away, and Molly felt a wave of pity for the young woman, who apparently had an understandable fear of losing people.

At last, the boys arrived. Molly felt that rush of panic she always experienced when he appeared and shoved it down, trying to keep control of her expression. She was determined to take Mary’s subtle advice and try not to be intimidated by him. 

For her part, Mary rushed to John and grasped his arm, completely failing to hide her relief that he was safe. Nothing was said and the display was not unseemly nor undignified; yet to Molly, at least, the signs were unmistakable. Yes, she thought with grim amusement. Mary was definitely not perfect. Fortunately, John seemed not be put off by severe separation anxiety disorder. Molly found herself hoping that he could help Mary overcome her fears.

“So have you two been becoming acquainted?” John smiled fondly.

"Yes, and I’ve found out that Molly's absolutely brilliant,” Mary announced proudly. “She’s got your body here all sorted out, haven’t you, dear?”

Molly blushed. “I . . . I think so,” she stammered, damning her tongue for never being able to perform correctly in front of him. “You know, the police . . . they thought the victim was a murder made to look like an accident. But it isn’t. Wasn’t. I mean, I think it wasn’t. I think. . . I believe. . . . It’s a suicide that someone’s tried to make look like an accident.” She began to point out the clues that had led her to her conclusion. Then she looked at the floor, waiting for Sherlock to tear her insights apart.

Sherlock was silent for far too long. Molly wrung her hands miserably, not looking at anyone. Then he finally spoke. “Mary’s right, Molly. That was brilliant. I believe you’ve hit on the truth.” He went on, indicating a few minor details that Molly had missed, but that just pointed that much more clearly to the solution to the mystery that Molly had outlined.

“Thanks for letting me watch you work, Molly,” Mary said earnestly before she left. “Maybe we can work together sometimes. Just for fun.” Molly found that she liked that idea.

She went home that night happier than she’d been in a long time. It warmed her heart that Mary, although in some personal distress, had deliberately drawn Sherlock’s attention to Molly’s talents in a way that made him appreciate her. Perhaps the day would come when she could be promoted to ‘individual’ in her own right. In the meantime, she had made a new friend and ally in Mary Morstan. She thought they might make a formidable team.


	2. Separation Anxiety

“And please say to me  
You’ll let me hold your hand.  
I want to hold your hand.”  
Lennon/McCartney

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

During the taxi ride back to her flat from St. Bart’s, Mary could not bring herself to let go of John’s hand. He was describing his and Sherlock’s evening activities to her, and during the course of his narrative, she came to understand why they had had to keep her and Molly waiting at St. Bart’s for three hours without a word. She just hoped that he had not noticed how frightened she had been. He had not seemed to. He was talking to her in a perfectly normal, casual manner. “I just have to get used to this,” she told herself firmly. “This is his job. He does dangerous work, and sometimes he’ll be out of contact, maybe for days, maybe even weeks. If I want to be part of his life, I’ll just have to learn to deal with it.” 

He had texted her, asking her to meet him and Sherlock at Bart’s after work, but then they had been held up. “It’s okay. They know I’ll wait here for them as long as it takes,” Molly had said, unconcerned. The young pathologist was used to their chaotic life and was also brave and trusting and didn’t indulge herself in pointless worry. Mary wished acutely that she could be more like the tranquil Molly. Instead, she had grown more and more anxious as the hours had stretched on, imagining all sorts of horrible things that might explain the delay. 

“You and Molly were certainly not idle while we were gone,” John now observed cheerfully. “Sherlock seemed quite impressed with your analysis of that body.”

“It was Molly’s work. I just helped,” Mary told him, amazed that her voice sounded perfectly normal. “I liked working with her, though. I hope we get to do more things together.”

They had now arrived at her block of flats. She had to let go of his hand so that he could get out of the taxi and walk around to hold her door for her. He paid the fare and then she snagged his hand again as they approached the front of the building. “He’s going to know something’s wrong,” she thought, frowning a bit. “He’s going to know. What will he do when he finds out what a useless coward I am?”

He took her key and unlocked her door for her, holding it for her to enter before him. After four months of dating this man, it still filled her with wonder that he did these little, caring things for her. Was he the last man in England with these beautifully chivalrous manners? Perhaps that was why this was only the first time since they had started seeing each other that he had not let her know when he was going to be late. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she offered, and wandered into the kitchen, leaving him in the sitting room to start a fire in the fireplace. The act of making tea calmed her nerves immensely, and the sound of a crackling fire greeting her as she carried the tray in to him was comforting. She sat beside him on the sofa and poured his cuppa just as he liked it.

“So now we’re alone, Mary,” he said tentatively, after taking his first sip. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

She set her cup down and looked into its depths. “What makes you think anything’s bothering me?”

He sighed. “Did I do something to upset you? No, don’t answer that,” he retracted quickly. “I know I did something to upset you. It’s because we kept you waiting so long, isn’t it? I ought to have texted you, but since we were undercover it would have raised suspicions, and I thought. . . .”

“John, stop,” she interrupted. “I’m not upset with you about anything. I’m upset with myself, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you. I’ll work it out myself.”

He set his teacup down and ran a hand over his face. “Mary, I . . . look, I know I’ve no right to say this, but. . . . anything that upsets you upsets me, as well. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s really nothing. Honestly, it’s just trivial. Not worth talking about.” She resolutely drank her tea, trying to ignore his concerned expression. He thought she was perfect. He’d said as much many times in the past several weeks. How could she let him see this weakness in her? 

An uncharacteristic silence stretched out between them. In the past four months, they had talked freely about everything. It was hard to keep this from him now. And he was looking at her with almost Sherlockian intensity. “You’re not upset, are you? You’re . . . worried about something. Mary, what is it? Please, let me help.” 

She couldn’t respond, and the silence built a wall between them. Unable to lift her eyes to his face, she gazed at his hands; his right hand was massaging his left, trying to hide the tremor, and it made her heart ache. Finally, it seemed he couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He burst out, “Mary, you’re the strongest, most fearless, most self-reliant person I’ve ever met; and I’ve spent a good part of my life in the military, so I’ve had a lot of experience with brave and self-assured people. I . . . I know you don’t need anybody. You are more than capable of handling any situation by yourself. But I’d like you to know . . . you don’t have to. I’m here for you, if you want me.”

Was it true? Mary had never had anyone but herself to depend on since she was six years old. She had lived her life like a clenched fist, tightly closed in on herself. Could she really allow herself open her hand and let someone take care of her for a while? No, she couldn’t. No one was trustworthy. No one was reliable. No one, except for John Watson. She drew a deep breath and took a chance.

“I told you my mother died when I was four. What I didn’t tell you was that no one told me she had died. As far as I was concerned, she just vanished. Then my nanny walked out and never came back. I’ve never found out what happened to her. She was just gone.”

John reached out and took her hands in his. “And then your father disappeared, too, with no explanation,” he concluded, understanding.

She nodded. “I’d still not know what had happened to him if it weren’t for you. Well, you and Sherlock,” she added, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It felt somehow good to talk about it. She’d never talked about her fears before, with anyone, and now that she’d got started, she found the words gushing out like water through a broken dike. “When I was six, my father sent me away to England to live with distant relatives. I’d always lived in India—it was hard, coming here alone to live with strangers. And no one kept me long. A few months here, a year to so there. Then I mostly lived in various boarding schools. Once, I came back for a break from school to the cousin who was meant to be looking after me, and found they’d left on holiday and hadn’t bothered to tell me.”

“That’s outrageous! What on earth did you do?” John exclaimed, and she wondered why he sounded so angry. 

“Oh, it was all right. I was twelve years old, hardly a baby. I just lived in their house and ate their food until it was time to go back to school. It was only a few weeks. Actually,” Mary’s mouth quirked in an ironic smile, “it was quite lovely, not having to deal with people for a while.” She stopped, unable to get the point of the story she was telling.

And she didn’t need to. “You were afraid I’d vanished, like everyone else,” John stated gently.

She studied his hands, now both perfectly steady, which were gripping her own hands tightly. “Silly, isn’t it?” she whispered, ashamed. “I just kept thinking of what might be happening to you; all the different reasons you might never come back.”

“Not silly in the least,” he declared. “I can’t think of anything more reasonable.”

Now at last, she felt she could lift her eyes to his, although she was afraid of what she might see there. She did not want his pity, and she feared his contempt. But what she saw on his face was a fierce affection. “I promise you, love, I will never leave you as long you want me around,” he said softly. “I have a dangerous job and I can’t always know what might happen; but I swear I will not just disappear without a word. I will do whatever it takes to let you know where I am, no matter what.”

Now she was well and truly embarrassed. “No, John, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to cater to my childish fears. I can deal with it.”

His eyes lit up with admiration. “Oh, I know you can. You’re the strongest, most fearless, most extraordinary person I’ve ever known. You’ve coped with everything life’s thrown you with courage and grace. But you don’t have to cope with things alone anymore. We can deal with it together.”

What an odd sensation, to not be alone; to have someone to rely on; someone who understood how she felt; someone who saw the real her, with all her fears and imperfections and still wanted her. 

“And I’ll tell you something else,” John went on, now lost in his own indignation. “It’s a good thing your father was murdered already, because if he were still alive I’d have to track him down and kill him myself! What the hell was he thinking, sending his baby daughter to be passed about among strangers? What kind of father leaves his child to cope on her own like that?”

And Mary laughed, because he cared enough to be angry on her behalf for sins committed against her which she had never even thought about. It was just her life and she had accepted it for what it was. It had never occurred to her that what had been done to her had been wrong, or that she had somehow been exceptional in overcoming her difficult circumstances. Seeing herself through John’s eyes was a revelation, and it warmed her heart to know that he saw her for what she was and still thought she was perfect. 

And so, she grabbed onto him with both hands and kissed him and never wanted to let him go.


End file.
